As Tyler, the barista at one of my favorite cafes, spun around from the espresso machine towards the bar sink behind him, the stainless steel steaming pitcher he intended to empty failed to clear the counter’s edge and flew from his hand. When it crashed against the concrete floor, the half-inch of warm, frothy milk that was left in it from the last latte he’d made sprayed drops into each of 360 degrees. The back counter, cabinet doors, Tyler’s apron, my favorite fresh-from-the-dryer, long-sleeved, gray t-shirt and everything on the front counter including my open wallet and Naomi’s crisp croissant were all splashed. No surface was spared. I broke out laughing. As Tyler offered his mortified apologies while insisting that my order was on the house and the other barista handed me some dampened paper towels to dab my shirt and clean my glasses, I couldn’t stop laughing. The moment…